Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Death by Ruffles and French Onion Dip

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.
Gene Fowler


Death by Ruffles and French Onion Dip
By Kelley Williams

Ruffles potato chips and French Onion Dip will be the death of me, causing me to end up on that show about people who die freakish deaths. Like that guy who was killed by his TV, or the guy who peed himself to death, or the guy who nabbed on old lady’s purse, or the guy who died by beer keg. Anyone else noticing a common thread here?

It pains me dearly that something I love oh-so-much, would treat me oh-so-bad, but alas, it is true. But I won’t die from a massive artery-clogging heart attack like all other lovers of fine food who consume an entire bag of Ruffles and an entire container of French Onion Dip in one sitting do. Nor will the Grim Reaper come for me because my love affair with Ruffles and French Onion Dip will cause my butt to grow so large that Jim Bob confuses me with the prize winning pig at the county fair and buys me from the 4-H kid who fattened me up in order to roast me over an open pit at his family reunion.

The fact is, I won’t even get to finish the entire bag of Ruffles and the entire container of French Onion Dip – which is the real tragedy if you ask me – because death will find me before I even experience that first bite of deliciousness.

Here’s how it’s goin’ down.

I purchase the chips and dip, and a few other essentials, from Target, race to my car and throw all the bags, sans the one containing the items of my demise (which will be securely placed by my side), in the back seat and strap on my seatbelt. Target is only two minutes from my house, which means I am only two minutes away from tasting utter bliss. But that is two minutes too long. The Ruffles and Dip must be enjoyed now. So on the way out of the parking lot I open the bag of chips. As I cross six lanes of oncoming traffic, I attempt to unscrew the lid on the jar of French Onion Dip. Except that unscrewing the lid on a jar of French Onion Dip requires two hands – preferably bear hands with the strength of The Incredible Hulk – and driving requires at least one hand. For those of you who’ve misplaced your calculator, that’s three hands. And guess what? I only have two. Weird, I know.

My unfortunate third hand deficiency makes driving across six lanes while opening the jar of French Onion Dip impossible. But I make use of my superior prioritizing skills and decide the driving can wait. I cradle the Ruffles in my lap, point my car in the direction of the desired lane, step on the gas, and turn all my attention to the French Onion Dip.

And that’s how it’ll happen. I’m not exactly sure if another car will hit me, or if I’ll hit another car, or maybe a telephone pole. Or maybe sail over the median and get hit by several cars at once. Regardless, the end result will be the same.

I know that some of you, deeply saddened by my untimely demise, may call this a senseless tragedy. But know this, if I did manage to unscrew the lid and even just one French Onion Dip covered Ruffle reached my lips before lights out, I died a happy girl. And if you must blame someone, don’t blame my beloved. Blame Target. They did not have The Best French Onion Dip On The Planet: Fritolay French Onion Dip with the easily removable plastic lid and easily peeled back foil cover. Instead I had to purchase Not The Best French Onion Dip On The Planet: Lays French Onion Dip, with the impossible to unscrew and cross six lanes of traffic at the same time lid.

So if you really think about it, Target will be the death of me.

In place of flowers, please cover my casket with Ruffles and French Onion Dip.

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